Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Fifteen
Kyle’s POV
I slammed my hand against my desk, the sharp sting barely registering against the fury coursing through me. Paper scattered, my coffee cup trembled dangerously close to spilling, but I didn’t care. My jaw clenched as my glare remained fixed on the news article that glared back at me from my laptop screen, the headline burning itself into my mind like a hot iron pressed into bare skin.
“illegitimate Heir: Kyle Banks‘ Secret Son Finally Arrives”
-in fists.
My fingers curled into fists.
Illegitimate.
The word bit at me, digging its claws into a wound that had never fully healed, sending a fresh wave of anger coursing through my veins. After everything I had done after the choices I had made, the sacrifices; I still couldn’t escape it. I had agreed to the marriage, sacrificed my love just to ensure my child wouldn’t bear the same damn label I had carried my entire life. I had married Lilian for this very reason to avoid this exact humiliation. And yet, it had happened anyway. The thing I feared most. The thing that had haunted me since
childhood.
To make matters worse, reporters were feeding on it, twisting the narrative to fit their headlines, and their profit. They didn’t care about the truth. They didn’t care about my son or the trauma associated with it.
Beside me, my phone vibrated against the desk. I turned my head slightly, catching the name flashing on the
screen.
Mother.
My jaw clenched. Of course, she’d call now, meaning she had seen the news, Good!
I let it ring. My thumb pressed the side button, silencing it. I didn’t need to hear whatever self–righteous nonsense she had to spew. I was in this mess thanks to her, because of the choices she had forced upon me. Maybe she didn’t, but none of this would have happened if she hadn’t started this dating spree. None of this would have occurred if I had left that night too.
My hands tightened into fists, nails biting into my palms while my head pounded painfully into my skull with
so much vigor.
My anger hadn’t begun to settle when I spun in my chair, grabbed my office phone, and punched in a number. The second it connected. I barked, 1 don’t care what it takes. Shut the articles down. Pull them, threaten lawsuits, and pay them off if you have to. I don’t want to see a single goddamn headline about my son again.”
There was a nervous pause. Then, the hesitant reply, “Sir, the story has already spread. It’s trending across all platforms…
“Then bury it,” I snapped, “I don’t care how deep you have to dig. Handle it.”
I slammed the receiver down before the man could respond, exhaling sharply. My pulse thundered in my ears, but the pressure in my chest refused to ease. I squeezed my temples, my fingers pressing into my skin as the past crept in, dragging me under like quicksand.
Flashback
TA
N
O
I was eight when my father first came for us.
For years, it had just been me and my mother, struggling to make ends meet. I knew my father existed, but I didn’t know who he was. We never talked about him and I never bothered about that either: I didn’t even think
about it
However, when my mother got involved with an abusive boyfriend, thoughts of my father began to creep in After every fight, I would find myself sitting in the corner of my room and wondering who my father was – if I
looked like him or not
I would think of if life would have been different with my father if he were present in our life, maybe it would have been better without me and my mom getting hit every day by her violent boyfriend. I wondered if my father left because I wasn’t enough. Perhaps I simply wasn’t what he wanted.
Then, one day, he showed up and took us to his mansion.
I still remember the first day at my new school, the one my father insisted I attend now that we were “Tegally” a family. The kids there were different from the kids back home. They carried this rich energy in their blood, in their mannerisms, and in the way they looked at me. Like I was some specimen that didn’t belong.
“You’re the new kid, right? Your last name is Banks.”
I had barely sat in the cafeteria when the words cut through the loud noise of the students chatting over
food.
A boy with perfectly styled hair and a smirk to match leaned across the table. His friends flanked him, their expressions jolly, hungry for a reaction. They were older than me.
I nodded quickly, trying to smile. “Yeah, I just….”
“Should you even be here?” the boy interrupted, voice laced with mockery. “My mom says you’re a mistake.”
The air was sucked straight from my lungs. My little mind swam in confusion.
Even at that age, I could tell those words weren’t nice. Their expression wasn’t nice either.
Everything around me, the chatter, the clinking of trays, the distant calls of lunch ladies blurred into nothing as I tried to process why I was a mistake. Why such a word was said to me?
“What do you mean?” someone among them asked.
The boy scoffed. “My mom says his mother trapped Mr. Banks. That Mr. Banks never married his mother. That makes you a…” He paused, glancing around as if waiting for permission to say it.
Then, with a cruel smile, he whispered, “A bastard.”
Gasps rippled through the cafeteria, and the blood drained from my face. I felt the weight of every stare on me. Some kids looked uncomfortable. Others… amused.
No one defended me. No one spoke.
“That’s not…” My throat had tightened, tears welling up in my eyes instantly as I was never a fan of attention. And that sure wasn’t the type of attention anyone would love to be at the center. “That’s not true,” I whispered, my lips quivering.
The boy leaned in, voice mockingly sweet. “It’s okay, bastard. It’s not your fault your dad never wanted you.”
The word hit me like a slap.
23
Chapter Fifteen
Bastard. He said it again and there and then, it was stamped. Soon after, my locker, and desk, were disfigured.
with the words “Bastard” and “Mistake.”
Even the media wasn’t left behind and there and then, my life got stamped with that label.
PRESENT
A sharp ring yanked me back to the present.
I blinked, my breaths coming fast and short. My phone vibrated insistently on my desk, my mother’s name
flashing once again.
I stared at it, jaw locked tight. Then, without hesitation, I reached forward and flipped it face down.
My hands were still shaking as I rubbed them over my face, trying to steady myself.
A sharp knock sounded at my door.
“What?” I barked, not caring if I sounded rude.
The door cracked open, revealing my secretary. Her face was pale, tight with tension. “Sir, the building is swamped with reporters.”
Of course, it was.
I pushed back my chair and stood, my muscles tight with anger.
They are like flies chasing after sugar. But I wasn’t going to hide. The media had haunted me, their merciless and ceaseless narratives had shaped my childhood. But I wouldn’t let them do the same to my son. He was innocent and doesn’t deserve to have a stain on his future just because of my mistake.
Moving toward the window, I peered down at the sea of vultures waiting to tear my life apart. A slow, bitter, and shaky exhale left my lips as I clenched my fists at my sides at their volume.
There is a saying that some haunting ghosts never truly leave. This time, I believe it, and I’m not sure I can
outrun them.
But for my son?
Maybe I could try
The oddluna
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